She slid her fingers into his hair, reaching around his head, gently probing. She was dimly aware that the coachman and groom from the halted carriage had leapt down and run to calm Frederick’s beautiful bays; panicked, the horses continued to kick at and drag the broken curricle they couldn’t get away from.
People came running, some from a nearby farm, others from the carriages now halting on the road behind them.
Stacie’s fingers touched a good-sized lump on the back of Frederick’s head. Gingerly, she traced its outline; it was large and no doubt painful. She cast around, but didn’t have anything to cushion his head, so she shifted around on her knees, but his shoulders were too heavy for her to lift.
She glanced up to find a wall of men closing around them.
“Is he dead?” one asked.
“No. But he’s hit his head, and I can’t lift him to get it off the road.”
“Here. Let us help.”
Several men crowded around, and all she could see were boots, trouser legs, and reaching hands. Then a hand darted in from the side, and silver glinted close by Frederick’s throat. Instinctively, she batted the thing—a knife?—away, and it vanished; when, shocked, she looked again, there was nothing—not even a hand—there.
She couldn’t even be sure it hadn’t been some trick of the light.
In the end, two kindly older men in the sober clothes of merchants took charge, urging the other would-be helpers back—sensibly calling on all to give the man air—then they helped her raise Frederick’s shoulders enough for her to ease her knees under so that, when the men let Frederick gently down, she could cradle his head in her lap.
She bent over him and, again, patted his cheeks—more firmly, this time. “Frederick?” She hated the way her voice hitched. “Please, darling,” she pleaded, “open your eyes.”
His brow lightly furrowed, a frown growing, then his lashes fluttered and rose. As she hung over him, upside down, he met her eyes, and she could have wept on seeing lucidity in his golden gaze.
His frown deepened. He raised his hands and clutched his head. She leaned back, and slowly, he sat up; she helped support him.
“Hell!” Frederick briefly closed his eyes, felt Stacie’s hand on his back, told himself she was reasonably all right, and ruthlessly stifled the terrified fury that had erupted the instant his wits had returned—pure panic that something had happened to her while he’d been unconscious.
His head felt like it was splitting in two. He eased his lids up again, squinting, then, when the world remained steady, he drew in his legs and tried to stand. Hands—Stacie’s and an older gentleman’s—helped him to his feet. “Thank you,” he told them both.
He draped an arm over Stacie’s shoulders and used her to keep his balance as, finally, he looked around.
His horses were apparently unharmed and in the care of someone’s groom.
Two coachmen were standing beside the remains of his curricle. On seeing him up and alert, they dipped their heads respectfully, and the older one said, “With your permission, sir, we’ll need to drag this clear of the road.”
“One moment.” Keeping his hold on Stacie, taking her with him—as much to soothe his inner self as to ensure he remained upright—he walked the few steps to where the curricle had fetched up. “Was it the axle?”
Both coachmen nodded.
“Aye, sir,” the younger man said. “Split right through. Never seen anything like it in all my born days—not on a rig of this quality.”
Frederick looked at where the man pointed and simply nodded. The coachman had never seen anything like it because he hadn’t previously seen what happened when an axle was sawn almost through and the carriage subsequently driven.
; The older coachman nodded sagely. “Aye.” Across the wreck, he met Frederick’s gaze. “Axles rarely break like that.”
Lips thinning, Frederick tipped his head, indicating he understood the warning, then said, “You may haul it off and leave it. I’ll send men to get rid of it.”
“Thank ye, sir.” The older man called for ropes and volunteers to pull the wreckage clear.
Frederick tightened his hold on Stacie’s shoulders. “You didn’t leave anything in the carriage, did you?”
She glanced down and seemed surprised to find her reticule still swinging from her wrist; she raised a hand and righted her bonnet, which had slipped askew. “No,” she replied. “It appears I have everything.”
“Good.” Frederick turned to thank the others who had helped, but they’d already retreated back to their carriages. He turned and looked down the road. “There’s a decent inn at the base of this hill. We can hire a carriage to take us home from there, and the walk down will help clear my head.”
She glanced up at him, concern etched in her eyes and face. “Your head still hurts, doesn’t it?”